Bad Decisions (the heart wants what it wants)
by escapist.art18
Summary: It's bait, Shūzō knows this. He's witnessed Tatsuya doing the same thing more times than he can remember. Even so, he straightens and looks at his uninvited companion. "Really?" is the only reply he can think of, intrigued. Caught. In retrospect, this was his first bad decision in a string of many to follow.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **It has been a terribly long time since I wrote anything, so forgive me if this isn't up to scratch. If there are any spelling/grammatical, please forgive those too. It came out more '_dim glow in dark room_' than I'd anticipated, but it works (I think) and it'll—hopefully—get better as my writing improves. Bear with me, please?

Anyway, things to note: the age difference between these two is greater (5-6 years, I guess). And that's about it.

It took me almost two weeks to write this. So, I'm not promising a quick update (I plan on writing 3 chapters for this one). The pacing feels kind of weird to me, but whatever. Hope you liked that, though. Let me know what you think. Reviews are always welcome. 

* * *

Nijimura Shūzō is no stranger to making the occasional bad decision when it comes to his personal life. Like the time he decided to get completely sloshed on a weekday after a particularly ugly break up with a girl he hadn't really liked to begin with. Saying _yes_ to her confession had been another example of his poor judgement. There was also that time when, on a whim, he'd confessed to being in love with his friend—Himuro Tatsuya—after the latter had had a nasty fallout with his 'brother'. Tatsuya hadn't spoken to him for weeks afterwards, not because he was disgusted, mind you (Tatsuya was know to be non-discriminatory with his affection), but rather because of the timing.

Their friendship has gradually returned to normal, aside from Tatsuya's insistence on Shūzō finding a 'special someone'. A nice way of him saying _'let's just stay friends, huh?'.  
_

It was a result of Tatsuya's subtle manipulation, and his own inability to think straight after a particularly gruelling week at work, that he'd accepted his friend's invitation to a night out on the town. And not just any part of town—Tatsuya's too cool for karaoke bars and quiet evenings. Shūzō studied the crowd of fresh-faced college students as they all moved, almost as one being, to the heavy bass of music screaming from the speakers. He slowly turns to his friend, levelling him with a look that reads _you aren't serious_.

He hadn't been to a club like this in years; not since he was at university. And even then, he'd never quite enjoyed them. The volume of the music pounding against his skull. The smell of beer, sweat, and people. The muddiness caused by a crowd of people constantly pushing you this way and that, sticky and hot. He was not about to subject himself to that.

As though reading his mind, Tatsuya grabs his arm before he can manoeuvre himself to face the entrance, and pulls in close enough to say—shout, really—into his ear, "relax! It'll be fun."

Shūzō's shaking his head even as Tatsuya drags him into the crowd, making him lose sense of direction. Like being dropped the middle of an ocean. Damn him. Tatsuya turns, lips curled up in an almost-grin, a smile lighting up the eye Shūzō can see. _Gotcha_ is what that expression says, and he feels his shoulders slump in resignation as he gets dragged through the crowd. Girls stare as the pair push past, guys too. _He has that affect on people_, Shūzō thinks of his friend as they make their way to the back of the club, up a flight of stairs and through a red, velvet rope guarded by a mean-looking brute whose face looks like it would be at home on those Wanted posters he remembers seeing in movies back in America.

Upstairs, it's quieter, less crowded, more lounge-like and chic. VIP section. A guy walks up to them, blonde and brilliant—obviously rich, clearly famous; Nijimura has seen him somewhere. And just like that, discomfort hits him like a tidal wave. This is not his scene. This is not his crowd. This wasn't such a great idea, he realises about five seconds before noting that most of the people in the room are young. Like, really young. Barely-out-of-their-teens young. He bites back a groan and tries not scowl as Tatsuya introduces him to the host of this little shindig. 

An hour or so later—Shūzō isn't entirely aware of the time—he's sitting at the private bar in the corner of the room staring at a beer he's been nursing for far too long. It's probably warm and tasteless. Pushing the glass away, he sighs, wondering if it's still too early to make a graceful exit. Tatsuya abandoned him some time ago, with a shrug of the shoulder and an order to 'have fun'. So he'd found himself a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer. His demeanour had done him the favour of scaring off anyone that may have been interested in small talk or whatever it was kids did these days.

He isn't anti-social, nor is he shy. He just isn't comfortable with the situation; this mingling thing just wasn't his thing. Too much guess work, too much room for error. Lead people, he could do. Charm them, he could not. Not intentionally, anyway.

Shūzō's just about to call it a night when someone wafts over, quiet and composed, young yet well put together. Shūzō looks at the kid, who's decided to take the seat right next to his—making it impossible to leave without looking like a jerk. He feels like he should know this person. Recognition, however, sits just beyond the reach of his exhausted mind as the kid stares at him with far too much intensity. He should leave.

And he's about to when his unwanted companion speaks, saying, "leaving already." It isn't posed as a question, as he pointedly stares at Shūzō's abandoned drink.

"Yeah," he replies, giving the boy a quick once-over without being too obvious in his scrutiny. "This isn't really my scene."

To be honest, this guy looks as out of place as Shūzō. Sure, he's dressed in designer clothes, and he barely looks old enough to be out of high school. Rich and young, like pretty much everyone else in the room. But there's something distinctly different about the boy—Shūzō can't bring himself to call the other a man. Noble, almost. He's beautiful, in a guy's sort of way. Not like Himuro, whose all smoke and mysterious allure, but, rather, more conspicuous; with deeply ingrained aristocratic features and mannerisms. Far beyond Shūzō's reach, but not really his type, anyway. He's struck with that sense of familiarity again, but pushes it away in favour of making a show of his intention to leave.

"A shame," the kid says, voice soft and coy, staring at Shūzō like he's been waiting the whole evening to strike up a conversation. Highly unlikely, but it's always nice to imagine these things. "With good enough company, the setting is of no consequence." The kid smiles then; almost sweet. Certainly victorious.

It's bait, Shūzō knows this. He's witnessed Tatsuya doing the same thing more times than he can remember. Even so, he straightens and looks at his uninvited companion. "Really?" he asks, intrigued. Caught.

In retrospect, this was his first bad decision in a string of many to follow. 

* * *

Shūzō wakes to the sound of someone moving around in his kitchen, uncaring of the amount of noise they make. He sighs, turning over to force himself back to sleep, but it's futile. He's up and shuffling out of his tiny bedroom and into the hallway that leads to his kitchen-slash-living area. His apartment is small, but neat. And it's in a prime location—safe, trendy neighbourhood, and close to the station—making it ridiculously over-priced.

He's hit with the glorious scent of good coffee before he even reaches the kitchen. Tatsuya's rummaging in his cabinets, searching for mugs, presumably. His friend turns, hair falling over his left eye as he offers a barely-there smile. He's wearing a pair of well-worn sweatpants and a sightly oversized T-shirt. "Morning," he says, completely unashamed about being caught in someone else's kitchen first thing in the morning.

Shūzō had had second thoughts about giving Tatsuya the spare keys to his place. Rightfully so.

"How many times must I tell you not to touch my good coffee?" His heart's not in it, though. It's too early for this. Coffee first. He sighs, walking past his friend to grab the mugs Tatsuya was looking for. He then parks himself in front of the coffee machine; possibly the most expensive appliance he owns—that's how much he believes in good coffee.

Tatsuya leans against the counter, eyeing him with questions in his visible eye. He grins and says, "well, I thought you'd want to break out the good stuff to impress your guest."

"Wha—" is Shūzō's intelligible response.

"The little redhead? I saw you two leave together last night."

"Oh. _Right_."

"Yeah..." Shūzō eyes his friend with a wary, sidelong glance. There are so many facets of Tatsuya hidden beneath that too-cool-to-bear exterior. He shrugs though and returns his attention to the coffee as it filters into the glass pot. Black gold.

"Nothing happened," he says to the pot, as the last drops fall. "We left together. He caught a cab, and I came home."

"You're so lame," says Tatsuya, flat and unapologetic. Shūzō shrugs and, after pouring each of them a cup, they move to the small living room. The curtains are still drawn, but the sun glows behind them, painting everything in muted yellows. They sip their drinks in silence, waiting each other out. He looks up to see Tatsuya staring at him over to the rim of his mug, trying to coax something out of him. He waits, lest he gives away too much. Like the fact that meeting the redhead had been last night's only redeeming quality. Or that, after at least an hour of making small talk—mocking fellow guests, and scraping only the surface of their own lives—Shūzō had only garnered that the redhead was a university student who liked playing shogi. Pitiful spoils, but he'd never been great with flirting, and the like.

"At least tell me you got a number," Tatsuya sighs, sounding exasperated.

"Well... Not exactly. I—"

"You're hopeless, Shuu"

"He's got mine," Shūzō continues, glaring at his friend over those less-than kind words, only vaguely questioning his reasoning for giving away his number to someone whose name he didn't even know. "Not that I expect him to call; I don't think I'm his type. He's not mine, to be very honest."

"I suppose it's just as well." Tatsuya's tone is dismissive, tinged with disappointment, like he'd just lost a bet or something. "I doubt your boss would take kindly to that."

"Why's that?"

An eyebrow raises as Tatsuya searches his face. "You're kidding, right?" is what he says when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

Shūzō shrugs to say _about what?_, once again feeling like he's missing something about what his friend's saying, about the boy he met last night.

"Think Shūzō. Just how many _naturally_ red-haired, filthy-rich, Japanese folk do you know of?"

After some thought, he feels his eyes go wide as the pieces slot together. God, he's such a dunce sometimes. He hears his friend chuckle, mockingly, but doesn't have the sense to be offended. His mind is racing through his memories in a desperate attempt to remember what he'd said about the company the boy's family owned. Had he complained? Insulted? Did it even really matter? The kid was only in university, and it was highly likely that he'd come across people that had had far worse things to say about his family's company.

"Can't blame you, though," Tatsuya says, slowly. "He's a lot better looking than his old man. Probably gets it from his mom."

"I guess."

Silence falls, comfortable and familiar. A sliver of sunlight pierces through an opening between the curtains. Shūzō watches dust motes dance in and out of the light, not really thinking of anything anymore. Soon, he'll get up from the couch, kick Tatsuya out of his house, do some laundry, go grocery shopping. Maybe he'll call home in the afternoon. Tatsuya will come over again and they'll go down to the basketball courts, pretend they're still young and carefree. He'll come home, eat, sleep and go to work tomorrow. Same old thing. _Nothing ever changes_, he thinks.

"What will you do when he calls?" He's not looking at Tatsuya when his friend asks this, but he can hear the smile in those words.

"_If_ he calls," Shūzō corrects.

"Oh, he'll call," Tatsuya says, confidence and amusement laced into his voice. "He may be an Akashi—all hail—but he's still a kid. And I saw the way he was looking at you. He'll call. What will you do?"

"I don't know, Tatsuya," he replies, tired and annoyed at the tiny flutter in his chest at the possibility his friend is spinning him. Shit like that only happens in the movies. "I'll say '_hi'_." 

* * *

"Yo," is what Shūzō says when answering a call from an unknown number, two days after his conversation with Tatsuya. The voice that responds with a polite 'hello' is as recognisable as it is unexpected—all silken honey and long-standing authority. Without thinking about it, Shūzō was sitting straighter, taller, all his senses trained to the voice on the other side of the line. Perhaps it was the recently acquired realisation that the boy he'd talked with, sort of laughed with, hurled secret insults at unsuspecting guests with on Saturday was Akashi Seijūrō. Of _the_ Akashi family, owners of the conglomerate that had recently bought the relatively small IT company he worked for.

Effectively, the kid was his boss. Or would become his boss some time in the near future. He remembers telling Akashi a little about his job and his company, but the redhead hadn't had any reaction to that news. The acquisition had probably been that insignificant. But now, in this moment in time, he feels his heartbeat accelerate, his eyes unconsciously scan the open-plan office space, as though he is about to do something against company policy. A dismissible offence.

"This is a surprise," he says, his voice sounding wooden to his own ears; hardly the smooth nonchalance he had been aiming for.

"I _did_ say I'd call," Akashi answered. Shūzō could hear the slightest hint of a smile in the redhead's voice.

"Yeah, well. After I realised who you are, I really didn't think... you would." _That came out wrong_, Shūzō realises as soon as the last word leaves his lips. He could kick himself, really, but instead he flails about for a second before—

"I'm a man of my word, regardless of what my family name is." The reply is cold and edged with broken glass, years of bitterness and anger, and laced through with the slightest hint of hurt. Shūzō's ashamed, for a breath, for judging this boy without truly knowing anything about him. This hasn't been a great start to their conversation.

"I don't think you have any right calling yourself a man, kid," he says after a while, trying to steer their sinking ship of a conversation onto safer waters. "Being so small and pretty, you know."

"I'm twenty years old, I'll have you know. I don't appreciate you calling me a child." Akashi's tone is flat, unimpressed and petulant. _Very endearing_. Shūzō screws his face up at the thought.

He clears his throat and asks, "so... what's up?"

"I wanted to invite you out for drinks this weekend."

Shūzō could almost feel the ground shake beneath him, a warning to be wary. He had no business associating with the likes of Akashi; not now, or ever probably. He was hardly averse to the idea of being with a guy—his attraction to Tatsuya had been a testament to that, and had opened up a whole other world to him. But he'd never really thrown himself out there, with a guy. Least of all with someone who outranked in the unspoken societal structure. He should say 'no'.

"Nijimura-san," Akashi's voice enquires softly, almost hesitant. He should _really_ say 'no'.

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, his heartbeat racing, his palms clammy. _Say no. Say no. Say no_, he screams to himself desperately; a sliver of self-preservation still functioning in his brain. "Yeah, sure. Drinks would be great. Saturday?"

Noooooooo! Logic yells from the corners of his mind.

"Saturday is perfect. I'll see you then." Akashi's words are breathy, as though he's letting out a sigh of relief with them. They make arrangements to meet at a quiet, yet trendy bar in the heart of Tokyo. After which, they say their farewells and hang up.

He sits at his workstation, staring at the lines of code on the screen while his heart rate mellows back to normal. Groaning, he slowly slumps until his head rests against the desk's surface with a satisfying thud.

_What did I just do?_

* * *

Saturday is... nice enough. They talk, they laugh, they drink. But, to be plainly honest, they have very little in common, so much so that there really isn't any reason for them to meet again. But, at the end of the night, as they wait outside the bar—a very nice place, by the way—for Akashi's cab, Shūzō spontaneously suggests that they come again to try the food. There's a kitchen, and apparently the foods legendary. Who doesn't like legendary food?

Akashi stares up at him for a while, face stoic and unreadable, but his eyes. His eyes light up a little in the dim glow of the street lamps. He smiles, small and peculiar, and suggests that they meet up again the following Saturday. Shūzō agrees, against his better judgement.

For the next two months or so, they see each other almost every Saturday evening. This has him dodging Tatsuya's speculative glares and unending questions on a regular basis. Shūzō doesn't learn much about Akashi, really. Only that the redhead likes basketball and Japanese literature, goes horseback riding when he wants to escape from the pressure of being born an Akashi, has an odd group of friends, and that he'd insisted on getting his own place for the duration of his university studies. It isn't much, but it isn't as though Shūzō is gushing to the other about his own life.

He suspects that this superficial relationship—it isn't a friendship, really—is just a cover up for the underlying tension that's been there, possibly, since the beginning. Sprouting and growing with every meeting they have, every phone call they make to each other, every look, every accidental touch. There's definitely attraction there; deep, almost tangible, and kind of longing. And maybe they've created this farce of a friendship to justify the inevitable. Shūzō's never been comfortable with one-night-stands, and maybe Akashi is the same. Technically, if they fall into bed one of these days, it wouldn't be one of those random hookups with a stranger you met in a bar one night. (Appearances, you see).

Or maybe Shūzō simply won't admit to himself that Akashi—this furtively engaging, disgustingly privileged, unbearably beautiful boy—has wormed his way under Shūzō's skin. Well and truly. And maybe he fears that if they just _do it_, all that tension will be revealed for what it truly is: attraction between two strangers that could never make a real relationship work. It's a conflicting situation, Shūzō surmises. One he tries not to think about too deeply.

He's caught off guard, then, when he gets a call from Akashi on Friday afternoon, asking if he wants to grab dinner. This is out of the their usual routine, so it takes a second for Shūzō to wrap his mind around it, figure out what to make of the invitation.

"Um... sure," he replies after a moment's hesitation. "But I'm not keen on eating out today. Is it all right if we go to my place?"

There's silence on the line, which is surprising considering that Akashi seems to have a response for everything. Shūzō wonders if he's maybe said something wrong. Is two months not long enough for him to invite the redhead to his place?

"That's fine," Akashi says softly, as though he's far away, and Shūzō feels as though he's missed something. Even so, he gives Akashi directions to his place and complains when the redhead declares that he'll bring the food because he made the invitation. High society manners, he concludes. The rest of the day is spent, rather unproductively, thinking about what Akashi's silence meant, and whether his crockery would be up to standard for his... guest. His mom had bought him a complete set of dining things that he only used when important people came over. That is to say, never. Maybe he should break it out to impress Akashi.

He almost loses himself in the stream of his thoughts, and apparently it shows, so much so that Haizaki tries his luck by attempting to leave early even though he's on mandatory overtime for the next three weeks because of his slacking off. Sometimes he wonder how this apathetic guy even got a job at the company. Sure, they weren't the biggest company, but they were one of the best in the business. And while Haizaki had a gift—as it were—for systems development, he lacked the drive for... anything. As such, it had become Shūzō's responsibility to keep him in check.

He pushes Akashi and all things relating to the redhead to the back of his mind. 

After work, he rushes home to tidy things up, aerate his apartment and pull out the good dinner plates, all whilst chiding himself for being so unnerved by a kid almost six years his junior.

When Akashi arrives, they hardly talk, but the silence is surprisingly easy. Comfortable, even, despite the unwanted flutters in his stomach. They eat their meal— authentic, and expensive, Thai curry—while making small talk about the events that occurred during the week. Shūzō teases Akashi's inability to stomach strongly spiced foods, preferring the subtler and milder flavours of Japanese cuisine. The redhead glares at him in that brilliantly authoritative way that Shūzō believes all Akashi's are either born with or forced to master. After dinner, he dumps the plates and things into the sink, shrugging at Akashi's slightly scandalised expression, more enthralled with the idea of educating Akashi on the marvels of movies.

"I prefer the theatre," Akashi had told him once. And he'd replied with a _of course you do_ stare. Seeing as how they were at his apartment, which housed his rather extensive film collection, he decides that now was as good a time as any to school the redhead. Or, at the very least, it's a legitimate excuse to keep Akashi in his apartment just a little bit longer.

They migrate to the living room area, where Shūzō, after changing into more comfortable clothing, opts to sit on the floor stretching his legs under the kotatsu. The movie is a locally produced, psychological thriller about a mother who's out to avenge her daughter's death. About five minutes in, Akashi moves to sit next to Shūzō on the floor. Their sides are touching as a matter of consequence, but his heart begins to thunder in his chest. He's almost certain the redhead can hear it.

A while later, and he's completely lost the plot of the movie, so enamoured is he by the woody base notes of Akashi's cologne—undeniably masculine, far too mature for a kid his age. He leans in unwittingly, and startles under the weight of the redhead's gaze. There's a moment then, Shūzō thinks. Heavy and significant, it feels as though all the air in the room has been sucked up by some invisible force. Like standing on the edge of a precipice.

Shūzō leans in further, movie and rationale long forgotten, and he's relieved almost when Akashi does the same to meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft and slow, surprising since it feels as though all their interactions have been leading up to this moment. The angle is uncomfortable, can't be maintained for very long, but the redhead's two steps ahead, manoeuvring himself around to straddle Shūzō's lap without breaking the kiss. Shūzō's impressed, despite his mind rushing through all the things that are wrong and potentially damaging about what's happening. What he's allowing to happen.

Akashi tastes of lemongrass and possibility. Like all the things he shouldn't have, but really, _really_ wants in that moment. The moment that seems to drag over unbearably long seconds.

His breath is too ragged in the almost-silence when they pull apart. Akashi's staring at him from under his lashes, as red as his hair. There's a rosy tint to his cheeks, his lips parted and wet, his breath hot against Shūzō's chin. _I should send you home_, is what he rationalises. Send him home and forget.

"Nijimura-san," Akashi whispers, and a decision is made. A bad one, albeit, but he doesn't care. Can't, really, when the redhead kisses him, fingers raking into his hair, then tugging. His own hands are restless, moving of their own volition. Grazing, tugging, feeling, touching—

Oh god, he's so fucked.


	2. Privileged Folly

**A/N**: This didn't turn out as originally planned. I had a game plan, but it kinda flew out the window when I got down to it. I feel I should note that this story is taking place over a longish period of time, but because I'm set on keeping it 3 chapters long, I fast forward a lot, which throws out the pacing. Also in this chapter, I switch between P. because it felt right.

Thank you to everybody for the kudos and comments and everything, it's always appreciated. I promise to do my utmost best to wrap everything off nicely with next/last part (which I hope will be done by next weekend—depending on my schedule). Anyway, too much talking. Just read :)

* * *

Seijūrō is woken up by the distant sound of his phone ringing. Absently, he reaches a hand out to blindly search for it, to no avail. When he pokes his head out from under the sheets, he's looking at a room that isn't his. _Oh. Right_, he thinks, turns his head to look at the back of Nijimura's; dark hair sticking out at all sorts of impossible angles. If he listens closely, he can hear the soft snoring sounds the other is making. He can't help but smile just a little. It's been a while since he woke up in somebody else's bed, aching in places that only ache when one has partook in... certain activities.

Quietly shifting, he sits up and just watches Nijimura for a while, ringing phone forgotten for the moment. He remembers an argument Kise once had with Aomine about how watching someone sleep was not, in fact, romantic, but creepy. That may be so, but he found himself helpless to tear his gaze away. That is, until he caught sight of Nijimura's bedside clock. _Is that the time?_ Good god, he's late.

He gets out of bed, slowly so as not to wake his... Nijimura-san, only to realise how cold the room actually is—Nijimura's body must generate a lot of heat. As quietly and quickly as he can, he gathers his clothes, dressing as he makes his way to the front of Nijimura's apartment. He makes it to his phone just as it starts ringing again.

"Hello?" he answers, trying not to sound winded, or apologetic.

"Akashi? Where are you?" comes Momoi's high-pitched, whining—the one she uses when things are not going her way.

"Ah..." he starts, fumbling with his jacket. "I overslept. My apologies. Give me an hour."

"No one's gonna wait that long for you," she says in a flat tone that's weaved through with a message that reads _you're not that important_.

"Half an hour, then."

He hears Momoi sigh, long-suffering, before agreeing to stall the student council meeting. The meeting he'd clearly forgotten all about in the wake of mind-numbingly great sex. Despite himself, he feels his cheeks flush even as he steps into his shoes. He vaguely wonders whether he should leave a note, but decides against it. That would be awfully presumptuous on his part. And since they haven't really spoken of the future, he will have to assume that last night is the climax—pun not intended—of their relationship. It disturbs him how that thought leaves him feeling cold and somewhat empty.

He determines not to dwell on it too long; he needs to get home, shower, and get to that meeting before he angers Momoi any further. So he leaves, closing the door with as quiet a _click_ as he can manage.

The elevator is slow in landing on his floor. When the doors open, there's already one occupant—tall and breath taking, with hair falling over one side of his face. Seijūrō feels like he should know this person, like he's met them somewhere, but he's drawing blanks right then. The man looks at him for a long while as he enters the lift, then smiles, almost smug. As though they're sharing a secret. As to what that secret could be, Seijūrō's not sure. They don't speak on the way down, nor when they part ways on the ground floor, so he shrugs it off as nothing. There's plenty to get through.

* * *

Seijūrō tries, he really does, to forget about Nijimura—his smile, his terrible jokes, his well contained passion for... everything. Not forgetting his lips, and hands, and touches. And—

"Akashi-kun."

He startles, but quickly recovers, finding himself face to face with his friend. Kuroko stares at him, blank yet concerned. It's unnerving. He chides himself for being so easily distracted, especially after he'd resolved to give up on these feelings. Give up on Nijimura. But, apparently, the execution is going to be more difficult than the actual decision. _The folly of the wealthy is to chase that which they can't have_, is something his father had once told him. He almost flinches when Kuroko presses a hand to his forehead. "Are you not well?"

"I'm fine," he insists, puling away from Kuroko's touch to sit up straight; impeccable and authoritative. Like a true Akashi.

"Oh," Kuroko replies, his lips quirking up into something of a smile. "You seemed... distracted."

"It happens."

"It's been happening a lot recently," Midorima chimes in from behind the safety of his book, thick and heavy-looking. Seijūrō glares at him, anyway.

They're seated at a coffee house close to one of their university's campuses. Not really catching up, just sitting there, each one engrossed in their own activities. This get-together is really just an excuse for them to keep in touch, however shallow their interactions may be on most days. Since Kise, Aomine, and Murasakibara all attend different universities within the Tokyo prefecture, they only see the others on more special occasions. Seijūrō also suspects that Midorima makes the long trip from his campus—Health Sciences—for the opportunity to trade snide remarks with the unreasonably perky barista that works here. He looks down into his abandoned tea, probably cold at this point, and pushes it away to make room for his Economics notes, which he proceeds to only stare at while his mind wanders.

His friends are right, he _has_ been terribly distracted lately. It's been four days since he last saw Nijimura. And, even though he had decided to let it go, he lacks conviction. Hope is a burdensome thing. He isn't really sure what he's hoping for. A phone call, perhaps. Or a promise of something more than one night's romp in the sheets. He's found that he's not really picky, which is alarming—a sign of weakness, his father would say. Seijūrō turns the page, to keep up appearances of studiousness. He isn't fooling anyone, though.

* * *

It comes, then, a week after that night. Nijimura calls, sounding remarkably calm. Or, not so remarkably; Seijūrō's always had the impression that the man has a cunningly strong grip on his emotions. Like the members of his family, but far healthier. He fights the smile that threatens to break through his façade. He's really happy to hear from the older man, much happier than he has any right to be.

"Nijimura-san," he says, trying hard—perhaps a little too hard—to sound unaffected. It comes across as cold.

"You play basketball, right?" Nijimura says, tone unreadable.

"Yes," is his slow response, purposely leaving out the fact that he is, in fact, vice-captain of his university's first string team (only because he doesn't plan to pursue the sport professionally. It seemed unjust to take captaincy from someone who wished to make a career out of the sport—his father had not agreed.)

"Come play against me tonight." Well. He hadn't been expecting that.

"I'll explain when we meet. If you say yes," Nijimura trails off, sounding somewhat hesitant, treating Seijūrō's silence as a _why_. And Seijūrō finds it difficult to refuse him.

After only a moment's pause he says, "very well."

* * *

"You want me to beat you," Seijūrō summarises, trying hard to wrap his mind around Nijimura's challenge. "For your affection?"

"Not quite," Nijimura says matter-of-factly, tossing the basketball from one hand to the other.

They're on an abandoned street court not far from Seijūrō's apartment—he can see the luxury high-rise apartments looming over everything else within sight like some high school bully, its windows reflecting the orange and pink hues of twilight. It'll be dark soon, but he can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be, in spite of his companion's challenge. He stares at Nijimura, hoping that he doesn't look as confused as he feels.

"Not affection," the older man says, opting to bounce the ball in a steady rhythm. The sound rings in Seijūrō's ears and echoes in the quiet of their surroundings, a testament to how isolated they are. "Let's call it... commitment."

"To what, exactly?"

"To us," is Nijimura's reply, grabbing the ball mid-air and holding onto it as his eyes bore into Seijūrō's. There are only so many people that can command the redhead's attention the way that this man is doing now. Seijūrō pushes that thought away in order properly look at Nijimura. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, with a stony gaze that is not devoid of warmth. His deceptively thin lips, sun-kissed skin, perfect hands only slightly calloused from handling a basketball on occasion. Seijūrō has never felt the need to depict someone using adjectives that would describe something you eat—leaving such things to the likes of Kise and Aomine—but even he can appreciate that Nijimura is indeed _hot_ and perhaps even _delicious_. Indeed.

"Basically," Nijimura continues, "win, and we continue our... this relationship. Lose, and we let it go. Or, you could just walk away now if you want."

"Do you always decide on your romantic relationships with a basketball match?"

"Only the ones that matter," Nijimura responds without missing a beat. Seijūrō can't tell if he's being serious. The offer is ridiculous, so is Nijimura's sincerity over it, but he lets a smile slip through at it. _It's certainly original_, he thinks, thoroughly charmed. He vaguely wonders whether he should inform the other about his prowess in the sport, but decides against it—if Nijimura had not wanted to pursue something further, they wouldn't be here.

"I feel it necessary to inform you," he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it to the side in an unusual attempt to appear more mature in front of someone he fancies—that's how embarrassingly captivated he is by this man. "I never lose."

Nijimura chuckles, throwing the ball to him, giving him the first turn. Seijūrō watches as the other hunkers down into a stance not unlike Aomine's. Nijimura smiles, smug and desperately attractive, and says, "I'm counting on that." 

Their match is long and arduous, both of them pushing each other. Seijūrō's delighted to witness Nijimura's skill, twisting this way and that, graceful yet powerful. It never occurs to him to contemplate why on earth he's engaging in a match to decide the future of a relationship that barely even is, so swept up is he in the adrenaline rush, in Nijimura's laugh, in the possibilities attached to victory.

Nijimura is a beast, but he has been called a monster. So it's no surprise that he wins, despite it being a close game. Of course not. The surprise lies not in his victory, but rather in the joy that wells up in him at gaining _this_ victory. He really shouldn't be this happy.

It's dark when they finish, gathering their abandoned jackets and making their way to Seijūrō's place. Nijimura walks a little closer than is strictly necessary, their sides brush occasionally, but it feels right.

"You won," Nijimura says into the night, bumping his shoulder.

Seijūrō laughs, really laughs—the sound is quiet, even to his own ears, but it's genuine. "I did."

* * *

Dating Seijūrō is... a challenge, for a number of different reasons. Seijūrō is controlling, more so by nurture than nature, so it can be unlearned. He's possessive, which is kinda cute to a point, but it's mostly unnerving to be monopolised by someone considerably younger. Also, he's an emotional shut-in. This is, initially, Shūzō's biggest problem: getting the redhead to open up about anything even remotely personal. He soon learns that pushing the issue is not only ineffective, but ill-advised. Seijūrō huffs, and puffs, and walks out the door in a well-mannered, if not clinical way. But he doesn't call or visit for over a week. Shūzō has to extend an olive branch, apologizing and promising to respect the redhead's need to be emotionally caged in.

A few weeks later, of his own accord, Seijūrō starts to open up. Yes, it's mostly after sex. And yes, it's _always_ in the dark, but it's better than nothing. Shūzō takes what he can get, and runs with it.

In the months that follow, he learns a little about Seijūrō's family—mother (the redhead speaks of her fondly, with a wistful lilt to his voice), and grandparents, the dysfunctional extended family, but very little about the father. Sometimes he talks about his friends, the fallouts they've had, things they lost and gained along the way. Other times he talks about his trips overseas, or his studies, or himself. Shūzō finds it all very novel, this sharing of secrets in the dark, him absently combing fingers through red locks (he really likes Seijūrō's hair), while Seijūrō speaks to the ceiling. A quirk of their budding relationship. He hopes, one day—if they make it that far—that they can share secrets outside the bedroom, like normal people.

Tatsuya thinks he's asking for too much. What does his friend know anyway?

They're not perfect, probably never will be. "But that's okay", Shūzō tells his friend one morning over a mug of his good coffee—he's resigned himself to the fact that Tatsuya will always find the places in which he hides his good coffee. Tatsuya takes a long drink of his beverage, watching him intently as he does.

"You're so whipped it's disgusting," is his friend's warm response.

"Shut up!"

* * *

Seijūrō knows that something is wrong the instant he walks into his apartment to find his father seated at the dining table. There's a bottle of sake and two cups in front of him. Their eyes meet for a short, emotionally charged moment that causes Seijūrō to pause in the genkan before turning to close the door and slip out of his shoes.

"Father," he greets in as flat a tone as he can manage around a rapidly increasing heartbeat.

"Seijūrō," comes the equally flat response.

"What brings you here?"

"Can a father not just visit his son?" Masaomi has always been better at this—their cold exchanges that pass for conversation, though he had improved remarkably since his mother's death. "Have a seat, I've brought _sake_."

Seijūrō hesitates, trying to work out what it is his father is doing before taking a seat opposite the man whose hair colour he inherited (his appearance having been shaped more by his mother's genetics), and whose characteristics had been instilled in him from the time he could think. He knows, instinctively, why the old man is here, but it would be too easy to just get on with it.

They chat about his progress at university, and a little about his sporting achievements. The elder Akashi talks about business, ideas he's working on, people he wants to align with—a subtle hint to Seijūrō about whom he should shower with attention at the next gala affair. He listens, but doesn't really hear, his fingers fiddling with the now lukewarm drink in his hands.

"I've been watching you Seijūrō," his father declares at last, pouring himself another glass. And _there_ it is. The reason for this unusual visit. "And I'm disappointed with you, to be honest."

"When are you not disappointed, father?"

Masaomi sighs, and it sounds like exhaustion and something else that Seijūrō can't quite identify. "I'm not here to fight."

"Only to tell me what to do with my life," Seijūrō states, his voice surprisingly calm considering the speed at which blood races through his veins. There's so much anger there; between him and his father. Anger and resentment that always threaten to tear them apart. But there's also a shared pain, DNA, and a promise that keep them together. It's almost cruel. Shūzō had once told him that he's too young for 'all this angst'. He could almost smile at the memory, but he's afraid it might be telling, so he keeps his expression trained into one of indifference.

"We've been through this before," Akashi Snr. says matter-of-factly, brushing aside Seijūrō's statement. "Now, I've given you your space. I haven't dictated to you who your friends should be. I haven't even told you who you should date. I've been generous, so I need for you to meet me half-way. Stop with this foolishness."

He flinches then, just a bit, because he can't help it. When his father treats who he is—who he really is—so recklessly, it feels like a slap in the face. Fumbling for something to say, he brings the glass in his hands to his lips. Everything that comes to mind sounds immature, juvenile, feeble. Like a lone candlelight to his father's roaring winds. He swallows with some difficulty, but there's no courage to be found in the liquid in his glass.

"This... Nijimura boy," Seijūrō's father continues, apparently blind to his son's plight. "He seems like decent lad. More so than the last one you picked. Ambitious and talented, with a promising future. I don't think you understand just how much he has to lose."

He doesn't really. Shūzō talks about his life very openly—it scared Seijūrō at first—but it would be stupid of the redhead to assume that he knew everything about his boyfriend. They weren't quite there yet. Would never get there if his father had anything to say about it.

Quiet falls like a slab of iron, cold and heavy, making it almost difficult to breath. They stare at each other from across the small table, Seijūrō unable to voice the things that float around in his head: _why?_, or _he makes me happy_, worst still _I think lo_—

"I'm giving you a week," his father finally says, getting up from his chair with perfect posture. Seijūrō watches as he brushes imaginary lint off the sleeves of his tailored suit jacket. Looking up at the elderly man, he sees his future. It makes his heart sink a little. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening," he replies softly, like the child he always feels he is in his father's presence.

"A week. Fix this foolishness. Or I will." Masaomi doesn't wait for a reply—there are no replies to commands.

* * *

"You're thinking too hard," Shūzō whispers into his ears, low and conspiratorial, making Seijūrō shudder before he can think better of it.

It's Sunday afternoon, almost a week after his father's visit, and they're seated on Shūzō's floor, watching one of his American movies, the kind that Seijūrō has no interest in watching, so he'd chosen to review his notes. This had turned out to be more difficult than anticipated, considering that Shūzō is now sitting against the couch, with the redhead between his legs, occasionally tucking his chin over Seijūrō's shoulder. It would be distracting, were he not already distracted.

His father's ultimatum has given him sleepless nights, but it hasn't deterred him—he can tell by the way he sighs when Shūzō rakes lazy fingers through his hair like the man has a right to. He has wondered, though, whether he should share this with his boyfriend, but decided against it. And he doesn't question the motives behind that selfishness.

"Why did pursue this relationship?" he blurts out before logic can stop him, staring straight ahead so as to avoid meeting Shūzō's eyes.

"You're cute when you blush," is the easy reply after a short, thoughtful pause. Arms wrap around his middle (an uncommon display of affection that he allows), pulling him backward into a world of warmth and poor posture. Shūzō's voice lowers when he says, "and you're also pretty hot when you c—"

"Those are hardly sturdy foundations for a relationship."

Shūzō shrugs, and there's a thoughtful pause before, "I like you. And I want to be with you. You want me, I assume. It's not quite Romeo and Juliet, but here we are, together still. Months later than what Tatsuya had predicted."

"Your friend doesn't like me much, does he?" he says matter-of-factly, like the answer is insignificant. But they both know it is, for some deeply peculiar reason that Seijūrō's not willing to delve into right then. Shūzō chuckles, warm breath tickling the redhead's neck.

"Tatsuya's a pessimist by nature. Don't take it personally."

He hums, acknowledging the statement, but still ill at ease over the close friendship Shūzō and this Tatsuya share. He's not jealous, just... not entirely comfortable with it.

"Why do you ask?"

_My father's about to ruin your life because of me_, Seijūrō doesn't say, his fingers tracing random patterns onto the skin of the other's arm. It's selfish of him to not, at the very least, warn his boyfriend about what's about to happen. Let Shūzō down gently with a broken heart, but a life still worth living. He wonders if the older man would be able to forgive him when the dust settles. There a number of legitimate reasons why he should end their relationship, but only one, measly rebuttal. _I want to be with you_.

He would laugh at his own foolishness if it didn't threaten to tear him apart. It's in moments such as these that he misses his mother most. It's not a given that she'd support his choices, but she'd listen, try to understand, and reason with his father. It wouldn't work of course—some things can't be fixed with charming words and social graces. But her support would mean so much to him; it always had. Had spurred him into mostly futile wars against his father over everything from the right to attend friends' sleepovers to his choice of middle school he would attend. Wars over people and ideals that meant something to him.

Like Shūzō, who means more to him than he should after such a short time.

"Sei?" Shūzō whispers after a terribly long silence.

Seijūrō turns slightly so that the other's face is within view. "Just curious," he finally responds. "Are you still watching?"

"Yeah. That is, unless you have something in mind."

He smiles then, all coy and false innocence, because it gets Shūzō every time. "Perhaps."

Nothing lasts forever, Seijūrō knows this as an agonising truth. But this—he wants this to last. He'll make it last for as long as he can.

* * *

Mondays are never great days, and this one is particularly horrid for Shūzō. He wakes up late, having forgotten to set an alarm the previous night because of Sei and the pleasantly torturous things he's learned to do over the past few months. He's angry for all of two minutes before flashbacks have him thinking that that is something he'll just have to let go of.

Also, he's run out of good coffee, and has to wait in line for a cup of one at the coffee shop nearest to his company offices. When he finally gets to work, Haizaki's missing, along with all the work his kōhai was supposed to have done over the weekend.

Needless to say he's livid when his direct supervisor calls him into the tiny, dry-walled cubicle that masquerades as his office. His boss doesn't look happy, but, then again, Kasamatsu-san seldom does. After being told to sit, and obeying, the shorter, grouchier man stares him down with a stern look.

"I don't know which higher-up you pissed off Nijimura," he starts, sounding particularly put out. "But you'd better fix it, because god knows this department can't afford to lose someone like you."

"Sir?" he says, dread washing over him like ice-cold water running down his back.

"I got orders this morning," Kasamatsu says, pushing an ugly brown envelope across the cluttered desk. A gold sticker reading _confidential_ neatly placed in the dead centre. "You've been suspended until further notice."


	3. You make me reckless

**A/N: **And here it is at last. It feels like a rushed job, even though I spent a crazy amount of time on it. Looking back I should've introduced Akashi Snr earlier, but it's too late and I had to make do. Anyway, there's a ton of feels and such in this last chapter, so much so that I'm not sure how I feel about it. I've never been great with angst, but I tried. Enjoy.

* * *

Shūzō knows who's at the door by the quiet, yet persistent tapping, but can't imagine why they're here. It's late afternoon, but he's in his sweatpants and a faded, well worn t-shirt from his younger days. There hasn't been a need to dress up lately, not until this ridiculous suspension has been lifted.

He isn't entirely sure _why_ he's been suspended—the letter he received went around in circles, dotted with phrases such as _insider trading_ and _unauthorised copying of company files_. The offending party is, apparently, Haizaki (who has since disappeared off the face of the planet). But as the culprit's supervisor, he has been called into question. It's a real stretch, to be honest, and it stinks of conspiracy. Shūzō is beginning to think Kasamatsu's off handed remarks weren't merely another display of his boss's cynical nature. Maybe he'd really pissed someone off.

He opens the door to find a fairly stressed looking Seijūrō standing on his doorstep. After greeting with a quiet 'hey', he steps aside to let his boyfriend in. He hasn't told the other about his current predicament, primarily because he's been racking his brain for a Plan B, in case the charges stick and he finds himself unemployed. And unemployable—no company would touch him if he was actually found guilty of such things.

Shūzō stands in the living space, a hand running through his hair as he watches Seijūrō move to take a seat. Only the redhead doesn't. _He's acting weird_, Shūzō thinks distantly.

"So," he says after an extended silence, a self-deprecating smile working its way onto his face. "I got fired." It would sound like a joke were it not for the gruffness in his voice. Seijūrō flinches slightly, a barely noticeable movement, and Shūzō's not sure what to make of it. He clears his throat before saying, "not fired. Not yet. Just suspended, but I guess it's just as bad.

Seijūrō inhales, an audible, steeling thing. "I know," the redhead says quietly. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry about?" It feels as though the room us spinning, or crumbling apart. He moves past his boyfriend to take a seat on the couch. Even though he's asked, he doesn't think he wants to hear the answer. It's an irrational, baseless fear sparked only by Seijūrō's unusually—unnaturally—passive demeanour.

"It's my fault this happened," Seijūrō replies slowly, evenly, with a great deal of care. "Father ordered it."

* * *

Seijūrō delves into a short, yet concise explanation of the situation. It's a cold, detached, very clinical narration. Very Akashi. But Shūzō catches the small glimpses of guilt and other emotions as the other speaks—Seijūrō's inability to look him in the eyes for extended periods of time, the redhead's need to pace as he speaks, the look Shūzō gets when all's been said.

At first, he doesn't know what to do but sit back. Then he sighs whilst sitting forward, elbows resting on knees, a million unfinished thoughts running through his brain. He opens his mouth. Once. Twice. Then he looks up.

"You knew?" he says, more emotion than he cared to allow in his tone.

"I did, in a way," the other responds, voice distant, eyes downcast just a little. Shūzō is struck, then, by the fact that yes, this kid is mature, and smart, and really good at a lot of things he wasn't remotely aware of when he was that age, but Seijūrō's still a kid. Of sorts.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

The redhead looks up, the look on his face unreadable and closed off. "I should have told you."

Shūzō levels him with a look that says _you think? _There's a number of things he wants to say, but his mind—or heart—picks to ask _why_. As though it will change anything. As though a good enough answer can cover the wound and make it okay.

It takes a while for Seijūrō to say anything, and Shūzō's about to speak up when the redhead says (quite strongly, and with a misplaced air of defiance), "I was afraid you would write me off as... inconvenient,"—_like the last guy _goes unsaid, but it's heard clearly—"I was afraid of losing this. And you. Though..." Seijūrō shrugs, leaving a world of things unsaid—he always does that, the little shit.

Shūzō scrubs his face, thinking very hard about the logical thing to do here: give up on this thing they have, get his job back, pretend it never happened. That's logic. That's what he should do.

"I came to apologise, "Seijūrō declares suddenly, turning to collect his bag. To leave. "Because you don't deserve this, Nijimura-san."

_God, you're such an idiot_, he admonishes himself, even as he stands, walks over to Seijūrō and flicks him on the forehead. "Damn brat," he grumbles a little too fondly, ruining his attempt at sounding menacing. "Don't go."

* * *

_Of all the stupid things you've ever done_, he tells himself, _this is by __**far**__ the worst_.

Closing the gap between them, he embraces the redhead. It's a painfully awkward hug because Seijūrō's all rigid and Shūzō's not entirely over the fact that he was kinda lied to, but he muscles through until Seijūrō leans into him slightly and sighs almost imperceptibly—he feels the other's breaths against his skin, through the fabric of his t-shirt.

"We'll work something out," he hears himself say, though no such hope exists. "So don't go."

So Seijūrō stays.

"It's a pretty shitty situation," Tatsuya declares after an overly dramatic pause. Shūzō has just told him about the messy state of his life: his joblessness, his boyfriend's father's involvement in his employment issues, his indecision regarding his boyfriend.

"They're in Tatsuya's apartment, which is an exact replica of his own (considering that his friend lives three floor above his own apartment), but far more stylish. Because it's Tatsuya. Shūzō had made it a point to raid his friend's stash of beverages, seeing as he doesn't have anything better to do with his time. Except think about his messed up life, and his very real desire to not let go of his red-haired lover.

It's a terrible, terrible mess.

"You haven't told your mom?" Tatsuya says after taking a generous swig of his beer.

"Are you insane?"

"From the sounds of it, _you're_ the one whose insane."

He's right, of course, Shūzō reluctantly concludes. His friend is always right about the dumbest things at the worst of times. He can't afford to hold onto this relationship. His mom would never say it, but he knows she kind of needs the money he sends home on a regular basis. Ever since his father passed away, things had been hard. Sure, there had been a policy or two, and his mother had landed a pretty nice job, but with a kid at university, and another one on their way to university, it was a stretch.

If he got fired...

"Look," Tatsuya interrupts his train of thought, staring at him with that how-dare-you-make-me-worry-about-you look on his face. "I'm glad you've found _love_ or whatever, but is this a good idea?"

"It's a terrible idea," he replies with more certainty than he is comfortable with—he isn't accustomed to this 'lead with your heart' thing. "But, you know, the heart wants."

"I'd have never guessed you're such a romantic," Tatsuya teases, lips curled up slightly into a barely-there smile. The kind of smile that had first captivated him. Now, as he looks at his friend, all he can think is that Sei's (true) smile is even better. _God, I'm so pathetic_. As though hearing his thoughts, Tatsuya leans forward and tells him, "unfortunately, you can't eat romance. Neither can your family."

Silence follows as he mulls over that.

"What are you gonna do Shūzō?"

* * *

Kuroko is the last person he expects to find waiting for him outside his apartment building, all plain looking and bland. Seijūrō finds his ordinariness fascinating, like a very rare breed of flower. He pauses for a moment before walking up to his friend.

"I hope you don't mind," Kuroko says before he can say anything. "I needed to see you about something rather pressing."

Seijūrō stares at him, wondering what on earth could be so important. In their group of friends, his closest companion is Midorima. Murasakibara depended on him, or made it seem that way, which isn't a terrible thing, but it isn't really companionship. Kuroko was closest to Aomine, even though Kise tried his damnedest to be included in that intimate friendship. "Very well," he says after a thoughtful silence, scrutinising Kuroko's face for hints as to what this visit could be about, which proves to be a fruitless venture.

They don't speak until they're inside his apartment, when Seijūrō offers his guest tea—Kuroko is only one in their bunch of friends that appreciates good tea the way he does. After bustling about, they settle on the couches, a pot of tea between them.

"So," he says after savouring his first sip. "What can I help you with."

"Actually," Kuroko replies delicately, as though testing the waters. "I was hoping that I would be helping you." He raises an eyebrow in question, but his friend gives no reaction. He can guess what this is about now, but he isn't sure he wants to talk about it. "You've been distant lately Akashi-kun," Kuroko continues. "Well, more distant than usual. Midorima-kun has said not to get involved, and we've deliberately kept Kise-kun and Aomine-kun out of this because they lack subtlety. But we're all concerned."

Ah, friends. What would life be without them? _Easier_, he thinks. _Definitely easier. But also... lonelier_. He sips his tea steadily, mulling the idea around in his head, while Kuroko watches and waits patiently, seeming to have all the time in the world. He sighs softly, a sign of his resignation, and his friend reads the atmosphere liked a well loved book.

"What's wrong, Akashi-kun?"

"Apparently," he says, slow and deliberate, as though walking through a minefield, "I fell in love. And it's the single most terrible thing I could've done."

After a brief and impersonal recital of his predicament, Seijūrō lets out a long breath and the burden, though still quite present, feels lighter. If only just.

"I had suspected it was love," Kuroko teases—or at least seems to. "You were smiling far too much, for terribly stupid reasons."

"If I wanted your opinion on that, I would ask for it."

Kuroko only smiles, placing his teacup on the table between them. "So what will you do?"

"That's a very good question," he replies, mirroring his friend's action. He sits back and stares ahead unseeingly. This is quite the predicament, with so much at stake for both him and Shūzō.

"You know what I think you should do?"

"What?" his voice makes him sound far more interested than he wants to appear to be.

"Decide what you want," Kuroko says in even and unemotional tones—it's almost cold. "And concoct a plan to get it. That's what you do. What you've always done. I remember you saying it was an Akashi prerogative; to win at all costs. Even against family."

Indeed he had said that, in his wilder high school days, when all that had mattered was achieving absoluteness. He had been toying with an idea over the past few days—having nothing better to do since swearing off Shūzō until there was a solution (it had been a trying time)—but it was risky and dangerous. It also relied heavily on his father's perception of him, which, at this time, he couldn't gauge.

"So... basically," he says, sounding amused and revived, feeling utterly reckless. "You're telling me I should fight, and win."

"Not telling, reminding. It's nothing new, right?"

"Right."

"While I've grown fond of this new, in love Akashi-kun," Kuroko says teasingly (perhaps), "I do miss your fighting spirit. You lack bite when you morose."

An eyebrow shoots up at that, because _really_, his friends were prone to exaggerations.

* * *

He visits his father the following evening without being summoned and without a well though-out plan. Just hope and conviction.

He declines the butler's offer to notify his father of his arrival, better to catch the old man unawares. He knocks at the door of his father's study, because fight or no fight, they are not barbarians and politeness had been carved into his being since he was old enough to walk. When his father makes some non-committal sound of acknowledgement, he walks in and takes a great deal of pleasure in the momentary flicker of surprise that crosses his father's face at his entrance.

"Father," he greets, shutting the door behind him quietly. He walks closer to his father's large desk.

"Seijūrō," the elder Akashi says, gesturing for Seijūrō to take a seat on one of the high-backed chairs on the other side of his desk. He does, but only because he wants to be seated for what he's about to do.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" asks Masaomi. "It's been quite some time since you visited home without being summoned."

"I've come to negotiate," Seijūrō says, making sure to keep his voice even and sure, despite him second guessing his actions.

"Oh?" his father responds with the air of an adult amused with a child's attempt at adulthood. "And what is your bargaining chip, son?" A self-satisfied grin has spread across Masaomi's face, insincere and taunting in a way.

Seijūrō hesitates for longer than he wants, thinking over what he's about to do. "Secrets," he finally answers. He watches as his father's smile fades marginally and makes sure that he remains as stoic as possible. The Akashi family can hardly be described as close, but threats to the family's image and position are always taken seriously. And they're always disposed off swiftly and cleanly—which is why it's dominated as absolutely and for as long as it has. By threatening to expose the Akashis' secrets (which are many, illegal, and ugly in equal measure), he is effectively removing himself from them, leaving his father without an heir. Yes, Masaomi could name one of his nephews as his successor, but he was a proud man who wanted nothing more than absolute power to remain with his line of descendants. Which made sense, considering what he'd had to do in order to get it.

Seijūrō understood and relied on the fact that, in effect, his father wanted him (and only him) to take over. He'd been born for it, groomed for it, and threatening to remove himself from the family was his best bargaining chip. His only sway. Would he actually go through with it if his father called his bluff? Heavens alone knew.

"You would threaten your family the sake of one man?" The smile is still there on his father's face, but it's taken on a dangerous edge. It's the smile he uses when negotiating deals with lesser corporate entities, ones he deems to be unworthy of his time.

"The same has been done for much less in this family's history," he replies, imitating his father's icy cold tone. All this, he's been learning since he was a boy; it's second nature at this stage. A side of him his friends don't fully know. A side he'll never willing reveal to Shūzō. "And this is about more than this situation. It's about you and me, and the way things will be going forward."

"And you're being serious?"

"I would never bluff about family affairs." Not exactly true, but the truth is inconvenient at this point.

The silence is heavy and deafening. Seijūrō wonders if one the servants are standing outside the door, listening in on this sophisticated showdown. Perhaps it would be spread throughout the house until it reached the ears of members of the extended family, who were always looking for a foot in the door to the power seat. A potential feud was brewing in this conversation, and the deal that may or may not be struck by the time he left the house.

Masaomi leans back and glares at his son, all traces of his earlier amusement have vanished. He says, "what you do propose?"

Seijūrō lays out his requests: firstly, Shūzō's reinstatement and a withdrawal of all charges against him. He also demands the right to chose his partners—male or female—now, and if ever what he has now doesn't survive. It may not sound like much, but in a family like theirs, it was like asking for the moon.

"In exchange," Seijūrō says before his father can speak, "I will provide you with an heir, ensure your mad scramble for power was not in vain. And, of course, perform all other duties expected of your son."

"You would marry, and keep the lad as your lover?"

"Heavens, no. There are ways to have children without the need for marriage. Or even sex." These ways were, of course, unheard of among the elite of Japan, but we had to move with the times, didn't we? "It will be... tricky getting it done, but high society is nothing if not discreet."

Masaomi watches him, and he withstands the man's scrutiny with bated breath, and a little hope. It's reckless, what he's doing. Then again, it was reckless chasing after something with Shūzō after the what had happened with his last boyfriend. They could both lose everything.

The silence stretches for so long he's convinced it has been hours. He can hear footsteps in the hallway outside—servants moving around, none daring to enter this space, not even to offer refreshments. Seijūrō thinks he could do with a drink of water.

"Very well then, Seijūrō," Masaomi finally says with an unreadable expression on his face. "We have a deal, though I would like to get all the details down in writing. Insurance, you understand."

He tips his head forward in something of a nod, not entirely certain about his father's response. Or his agreement.

"Try not to look so surprised when you've won," Masaomi says, leaning forward to move papers around his desk as a distraction. "It's unbecoming. Makes it seem as though you're unaccustomed to victory."

"Thank you, father." He's not sure what he's thankful for, but he knows he means it.

His father waves it off dismissively before saying, "come by tomorrow evening, I'll have a lawyer present so we can formalise this agreement. After that, I'll have the Nijimura boy reinstated."

He nods and stands to leave, and utters a quiet goodbye, never looking back at his father, but he can feel the man's eyes on him. Things have changed between them, he just knows they have. And he doesn't know how to feel about it. He'll have to examine that after everything has settled. Perhaps Shūzō could shed some light on the matter one day, when he tells the other about his father—the man who taught him everything he knows, and sculpted most of the person he is today. It may be a while still before he can speak about his father to anyone. About the man who taught him what it is to hate, and what it is to love.

* * *

Long after Seijūrō had left, Masaomi is still in his study, though work is the last thing on his mind. He's staring at a framed candid photograph of his late wife and a young, chubby-cheeked Seijūrō in the garden. It had been taken by one of the servants on a Summer's evening, after an afternoon of frolicking about doing nothing constructive. His wife had decided to have a picnic with their son, removing the boy from a violin lesson on a whim so he could 'enjoy childhood a little'. She was smiling into the camera, while Seijūrō smiled at her. The boy had adored her, still did. Always would. It was one of the few things they had in common.

_He's so much like her_, Masaomi had concluded a long time ago, despite his best efforts to mould the boy into what the Akashi family would need in an heir. He'd had many heated arguments with Shiori over the way he raised their son—she often disapproved of his methods, he told her that that was it meant to be born into this family. The rich don't have money problems, they get everything else.

Today, however, Seijūrō had shown him that yes, a little of him had been built into the boy. His son's earlier foolhardiness was nothing short of dangerous—Masaomi hadn't determined whether his son had been serious about his threats. And it reminded him of what he'd done to his own father many years ago, when the old man had had to chose an heir between him and his older brother.

Pushing that memory aside, he picks up the picture with tentative hands and whispers "you were right" to the image of the people he loved most in the world. Once, when Seijūrō was older than captured in the photo, he'd had an argument with his son about his choice of sport at middle school, he'd told her that the boy was too much like her to be any good in business.

Surprisingly, she hadn't taken offence, only turned and pressed the full length of her body against his and laughed, low and breathy. "There's a lot more of you in him than you think," she'd whispered against his neck, like a secret. "He'll show it to you one day."

Indeed he had.

"Before my mother died," Seijūrō says to the ceiling as Shūzō idly combs his fingers through red, red locks that smell much nicer than any man's hair should. "She made me make two promises: To take care of father, and to be happy. Those promises have always been in conflict, the first taking priority more often than not. It feels... strange to be happy. Like I've let her down in some way."

_Too much damn angst_, Shūzō thinks while absently placing a kiss in Seijūrō's hair. It's strange to be here, in the redhead's apartment after the entire ordeal. He'd had a bit of a panic when Kasamatsu had called him to tell him that he'd been re-instated and that he should report to work first thing the next morning. The first thought that had run through his head was _does that mean we've broken up?  
_

A few days later, Seijūrō had appeared on his doorstep with takeaways and a modern fairytale of extraordinary bravery and foolishness. Apparently, Shūzō had surmised, in this tale, he had been the damsel in distress and the redhead had kinda saved his ass without him knowing. He still wasn't sure how to feel about that, but he's grateful to have a job and for things to be mostly back to normal.

Except for this deal that looms over Seijūrō's head—heirs and duties, and other elite family shit that he'd never understand. Over the past few days, he'd come to appreciate his simple upbringing and normal, run-of-the-mill family. There were just some things that money could never make up for.

"I don't think you've let her down," he hears himself say, fingers pausing in their ministrations to his boyfriend's head. "She wouldn't have made you promise to be happy if she didn't want you to be. She understood better than anybody that there would come a time when you'd have to go against your dad in an ugly way. Maybe she just wanted you to come away with something more than just money."

"Perhaps," is the response, spoken so softly and with so much doubt that he wanted to shake his boyfriend and tell him _'you deserve to be happy you damn brat'_.

Instead he chuckles and says, "that was pretty reckless, though."

Seijūrō laughs too and nods—or at least it feels like it, Shūzō can't tell in the dark. The lay still, the only sound in the room is their breathing, the only warmth is the other's body heat.

Suddenly Seijūrō shifts and gets up to straddles him, looming over him like... some really hot guy he can't believe he's dating—a terrible simile, but fuck that, it's true. Shūzō doesn't believe in soul mates, even if he did Seijūrō would not be his, but he knows this is more than mere attraction, it's grown and evolved. It's even been threatened and tested, and it still lives.

"You make me reckless, Shūzō," Seijūrō says, quiet and earnest, spoken like it's the greatest of his secrets. It's the closest Shūzō will get to a declaration of love at this stage in their relationship, and that's okay. More than okay. He smiles without thinking about it, reaching out to pull the other in for a kiss, brief and terribly self-indulgent.

"Yeah," he says, trying to sound exasperated, but but it doesn't work. "I love you too."

Seijūrō kisses him then, stealing his breath, stirring his desire. Tongues meet, hands explore, bodies move to a chaotic sort of rhythm. It's too much, and it's not enough. It's everything.

It isn't exactly a happy-ever-after, but it's pretty great ending to a series of bad decisions on both their parts.

* * *

And that's all I wrote. The showdown between Akashi &amp; his dad ended up sounding complete lame, but I'm too worn to redo it—I'm sorry. Thanks for reading, and an extra thank you to everyone who left review. Highly appreciated. I've been out of the writing game for a while, so it's nice to have people think it's decent. But enough with the feels, fluff is more my thing, to be honest. So lets see what comes up next.


End file.
